


An Overcoat of Clay

by blacktofade



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Plot Twist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-09
Updated: 2010-02-09
Packaged: 2017-10-24 18:20:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/266480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blacktofade/pseuds/blacktofade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Movieverse] Someone is shot, someone is buried, and not everything is as it seems.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Overcoat of Clay

A bullet whistles past Watson’s ear and he throws himself to the ground behind a bale of hay. The concrete is cold and unrelenting under his body, but it’s decidedly better than being shot. He counts the number of gunshots, until he knows the shooter has run out of ammunition and then rises swiftly back to his feet. He levels his pistol, resting his wrists on top of each other to keep his aim steady, then fires once. The recoil jars his arm, but his shot is clean and the man across the barn stands for a moment, as though stunned, then finally drops to his knees and flops forward. Watson doesn’t even need to be a doctor to know that the man is dead, his slumped posture says enough.

“Nice shot, my dear fellow,” says Holmes as he rounds the doorway of the barn, just a minute too late to be of any assistance, as per usual.

Watson doesn’t say anything, just uncocks his gun and slips it into the holster he has around his waist. He watches as Holmes walks over to the corpse and nudges it with his foot, pulling a face of disgust.

“Lestrade and his men can clear this up; you’ve already got enough figurative blood on your hands as it is.”

Watson doesn’t need reminding and he shoots Holmes a look that says as much.

For an instant, Holmes’ eyebrows move up towards his hairline, and his mouth falls open as if he’s about to say something, which is about the same time that something cold and hard presses against his temple.

“Jennings,” Watson says, remaining outwardly calm even with a gun pushing against his head.

There’s a deep laugh by his ear and rancid breath whips around his nose as the man behind him starts talking.

“The one and only; I thought I’d find you two here. The most infamous duo: Holmes and his loyal dog, Watson. Tell me, how long has it been since our last meeting?”

“Not long enough,” Watson grinds out, struggling as an arm wraps around his chest and pulls him further against the body at his back.

“Well, that’s my man there,” he says, gesturing with his gun for a brief moment at the body next to Holmes, “and he was my best shooter, but now, alas, he’s ceased to be because of you two.”

Watson knows it would be highly irrelevant, not to mention dangerous, to point out that it was in fact only he that ended the henchman’s life, and that Holmes should not get any of the credit; he keeps his mouth shut.

“Killing Watson won’t bring him back,” Holmes says, stepping over the body and walking towards them.

Watson can feel Jennings tense behind him.

“Holmes, you’re making things worse,” Watson rationalises, silently praying that Holmes won’t come any closer, because emotions are running high and he’d rather not be shot in the head accidentally – or at all, if possible.

Holmes stops and scratches at the back of his head, as though he’s bored of this tiring game Jennings is playing with them. Watson would rather him try to get them out of the situation, but with a gun against his head, he might be being bias. Holmes seems to receive his unspoken plea, as he lets his hands fall to his sides and sighs.

“What do you want, Jennings?”

“You know what I want, Mister Holmes, just as you knew I’d be here today.”

If Watson could turn his head, he’d be looking from Holmes to Jennings in shock. Watson should start getting his information from Lestrade, because Holmes always seems to leave the most important parts out.

“This is your final warning, Holmes. There’s lots of useful information inside your friend’s head and I’d hate for it to leak all over my shoes and the floor,” Jennings says this directly into Watson’s ear and Watson can’t even turn his head to escape the sound.

“I doubt you’d do it, Jennings; Watson is hardly a man to be trifled with. He’s a veteran, you know, very handy with a pistol; the proof’s right behind me,”

Watson shuts his eyes in horror. He knows the kind of man Jennings is – he’s seen it firsthand and has helped pick up the bodies after – and knows Holmes’ backtalk will more than likely be the last thing he ever hears his friend say.

“He’s not really that good a partner to you, is he, Watson?” Jennings says in a mocking voice, before turning to address Holmes. “You should have more faith in me,” he states coldly and _oh god_ , Watson thinks, _this is it_.

However, the gun moves away from his temple and the body against his back recedes. Watson almost believes that Jennings is leaving, that he’s been bluffing the entire time, but then there’s the sound of a shot, clear as day, and Watson finds his legs unable to keep him upright. He falls to his knees feeling lightheaded and surprisingly cold. Movement catches his eye and he looks down at the hole on the right side of his chest, a few inches down from his collarbone, where a small smoke trail flees from his body. It smells like blood and singed flesh, and Watson finally understands that he’s been shot. At the realisation, pain rips through his body and one of his hands automatically comes up to press against the wound. The words _apply pressure_ flash through his mind and he’s back to thinking of his first day of his first aid course in medical school, a wad of paper on his desk, his name and the date written neatly in the top right-hand corner, waiting in anticipation for his professor to stride into the room and fill his mind with new information.

“—tson, Watson.”

Someone’s calling his name, but it’s muffled and he’d much rather close his eyes and float away with the pain that rolls through his body, like waves in the middle of the ocean during a storm. A hand presses against his face, lifting his chin, because he’s been letting it flop against his chest uselessly, as it takes less effort, and he finds Holmes kneeling in front of him, asking him something he’s unable to hear, or doesn’t care to – he can’t tell which. He flops forward, his body refusing to hold itself upright, and he finds himself pressed against Holmes’ chest. Watson vaguely hopes that Holmes’ll be able to get the blood out of his jacket, because Watson knows that’s his favourite one, and he’s bleeding all over it.

He breathes in against Holmes’ neck, drawing in the familiar smell, like an anaesthetic, as his eyes fall closed and then nothing else seems to matter because everything goes dark.

*

Watson’s memories are like snapshots; brief moments, existing solely by themselves, until they’re placed together, against the dark background of Watson’s mind, and the bigger picture suddenly glares straight at him.

Holmes’ face, slightly strained as Watson feels himself being lifted by warm, strong hands. The sight of someone’s blood – must be his own, but it doesn’t quite register – that’s been dripped over the floor, like paint off a brush. Holmes’ face again, this time a worried expression marring his features, and the familiar, yet sombre, face of Lestrade. The roof of a carriage that fades in and out as he’s bumped and jolted about, pain heating his body with every movement. White, everything is just so white; white walls, white sheets, white coats. The face of a man he doesn’t recognise, but he says phrases like _epidermal haemorrhaging_ and _muscular distension_ , which sound like a medical book Watson once read; the man must be a doctor.

There’s a long stretch of nothing that might have lasted a minute or maybe two days, but it’s dark and Watson feels very alone, trapped inside his own mind.

Holmes’ face peers down at him, his mouth a thin line, his emotions visibly held at bay, but it looks like a piece of string trying to stop a charging stallion, as Holmes’ face falls and he rests his forehead on Watson’s unhurt shoulder, murmuring words onto Watson’s skin. Watson can’t hear what he’s saying, as he’s already drifting back into unconsciousness, but he remembers the moment, nonetheless.

Watson doesn’t remember Holmes showing up after that; in his place sits Mary, looking exhausted and slightly terrified. He stays awake long enough to hear her gentle cries, to move his fingers to grab her attention so she can hold onto his hand for comfort – though he doesn’t know for which of them it’s for – then falls asleep again, this time no longer afraid. He’s alive and thankful for the fact.

*

It’s almost two weeks before Watson’s allowed to go home. His arm is cradled against his chest, held in place by a sling, and his skin feels stretched and tight beneath the bandages over his shoulder. Mary helps him get used to walking with his cane in his left hand with a gentle touch on his back, walking slowly to accommodate his careful pace.

The carriage ride has Watson shifting uncomfortably as every bump in the road sends a pang of pain down his right side. He ignores Mary’s pitying stare, but doesn’t resist when she presses her hand into his and links their fingers together. He squeezes gently once to let her know that he’s thankful for her patience, then focuses back on the scenery whizzing by outside the window.

His study is exactly how he left it –clutter free and quiet – though the latter changes as the door at his back opens and the smell of tobacco and a hint of sweat wafts towards him.

“Who let you in?” Watson asks before Holmes even says anything. Holmes takes a few steps forward until he’s at Watson’s elbow.

“Lady of the house; Miss Morstan –”

“ _Mrs Watson_ ,” Watson corrects.

“ _Mary_ ,” Holmes compromises, glancing about the room as though it’s the first time he’s seen it, “was ever so kind to let me in, don’t you think?”

“How’s your face?” Watson asks innocently.

Holmes rubs at his reddened cheek idly.

“Still stinging; Miss Morstan has quite a hand on her. It was quite a greeting, I assure you.”

Watson doesn’t bother to correct Holmes on addressing Mary this time, just moves to sit at his desk, lowering himself down gently.

“She was furious when she found out what happened.”

“Did _you_ tell her?” Holmes asks, moving to lean against the wall, his back resting in the space next to the window overlooking the busy street below.

Watson shakes his head negatively.

“I think Lestrade might have. You know what Mary’s like when she wants information, and I fear Lestrade is no match for her,”

“Indeed,” Holmes says in acquiescence before crossing his arms.

A heavy silence falls over them and after a few awkward moments, Watson begins sorting through the stack of post on his desktop. It’s mostly messages from some of his older patients, wishing him a speedy recovery – it seems that news has travelled far – but there’s really nothing of interest and all too soon, he finds himself back in the quiet.

“Why are you here?” he asks Holmes, sitting back in his chair, only to move forwards again when his back presses painfully against the wood.

“Do I need an excuse to visit you?”

Watson looks at him for a moment.

“I merely came to see you,” Holmes says, but Watson continues to stare at him. “Also, to perhaps tell you that I’m sor–”

Holmes is cut off as a knock resonates against the door. The moment is broken and Holmes doesn’t continue to talk. After a pause, the door swings open and Mary enters the room, clutching medical supplies in both of her hands. Watson slouches in his seat slightly and Holmes turns to look out the window.

“Mr. Holmes, while you’re here, you might as well make yourself useful.”

She sets the items she’s carrying on Watson’s desk and looks pointedly at Watson.

“Your bandages need changing, and as much as I’d rather do it myself, I fear my composure might not last to see the cleaning through, so I thought Mr Holmes should help you, instead.” She gazes towards Holmes, who looks over his shoulder at her pause. “It’s the least you can do,” she says pointedly and Holmes has the decency to appear embarrassed, though Watson suspects it’s just for show.

She smiles gently at Watson, who returns the gesture politely, then leaves the room with a swish of her dress.

“I can do it myself, Holmes, it’s okay.”

“I for one would rather not be subjected to more of Mary’s wrath, that and you can’t possibly clean the wound on your back.”

Watson concedes after a moment’s deliberation because Holmes is right and he’d prefer not to end up with an infection.

He stands and slips off his jacket, which is only resting on his shoulders due to his sling. He drapes it over the back of his chair then starts to undo the fastenings on his shirt one-handed. It takes him a while, but eventually the material falls open and Watson is left wondering how exactly he’ll get it off completely. A hand on his good shoulder startles him slightly, but he’s thankful for the help when Holmes undoes the knot of his sling and gently removes it. Watson starts tugging at one sleeve, but Holmes finds an easier solution as he takes Watson’s shirt by the collar and peels it back, slipping it down Watson’s back until he tugs it past Watson’s hands, turning the sleeves inside out as he does so.

Holmes tosses the shirt onto the seat of a chair then gently turns Watson around. Watson peers down at Holmes for a minute, then realises their height difference might make the task a lot harder. He steps backwards until he feels the desk pressing against the back of his thighs, then sits on the corner, which makes them about eye level.

Holmes steps between Watson’s parted legs – which shouldn’t make Watson’s heart rate increase, but it does anyway – then begins to unravel the bandage over Watson’s shoulder. He’s careful, his touches light and even as he cleans the wound with a pure alcohol solution, and Watson tries to ignore the way Holmes grips his arm to keep him as still as possible with fingers that burn into his skin. When Holmes needs to reach his back, he steps back and allows Watson to move to rest his good elbow and forearm on the desk as he leans over the wood. Holmes stands at his side gently dabbing and swiping at the broken skin until he seems to be happy with his work. Efficiently, Holmes wraps his shoulder with fresh bandages then pins the end in place. Watson straightens, still facing away from Holmes, but tenses as he feels a light touch running between his shoulders and down his spine.

“I honestly didn’t believe he’d do it to you, Watson,” Holmes admits quietly and Watson sighs.  
“I know.”

He turns around and Holmes’ hand falls away.

“I thought I’d have to advertise for a new doctor to help me with my cases.”

He says it as a joke, but Watson knows Holmes well enough to hear the truth beneath it; he can hear the painful honesty underneath that tells him Holmes wouldn’t know what to do if he lost Watson for good.

“Not yet, old boy,” Watson replies with a lopsided smile, but Holmes doesn’t laugh, if anything, he looks even sadder and Watson has no clue why.

Holmes helps him back into his clothes and the silence around them seems loud enough to wake the dead.

Holmes smoothes down the shoulders of Watson’s coat then starts for the door.

“Scotland Yard has failed to apprehend the man who shot you, Watson, and I feel it’s high time I set out to look for him myself.” He holds a hand up as Watson begins to protest. “It’s a simple job; I received word that he’s holding a gathering at Ellings’ restaurant – I don’t believe we’ve been there yet, but we must in the near future, as apparently their lamb shanks are to die for – but I digress. I shall have him arrested before the starters are even brought out of the kitchen. Adieu, my good Watson, I shall see you again soon.”

He tips his head and leaves the room before Watson can even bid him farewell in return.

*

Watson expects Holmes to barge into his study at any moment the day after; he expects Holmes to retell the capturing of the criminal they’ve been keeping an eye on for the past two months with an exaggerated voice and wild gesticulations; however, none of that happens, as Holmes fails to show up.

Watson first puts it down to Holmes resting, then to Holmes trying to lure him back to 221B with a silent treatment, but after a week, Watson runs out of excuses and he finds himself unexplainably nervous.

After tea with Mary on the night of the eighth day following Holmes’ disappearance, he sets out – on the pretence of getting fresh air – to Baker Street. By the time he gets there, his leg aches something fierce and he’s thought up a million and one more excuses for why Holmes wouldn’t come and visit him. He dances around the idea that Holmes has been kidnapped and has been waiting this long week for Watson to show up and rescue him because the thought makes his stomach churn uneasily. His shoulder pounds heavily to his heartbeat and it feels as though his wounds are on fire, which only serves to help him realise that running off to save Holmes, should it come to that, is entirely out of the question.

He strolls, trying to seem nonchalant, in case Holmes is actually home and watching out his window, and glances up at the second and third storeys of 221B. There are no lamps lit in Holmes’ study, which makes the window dark and seemingly endless. He stops, quietly apologising to the man who has to step around him at his suddenly halt, and realises that the only lamp lit in the old house is the one above the front door.

His curiosity gets the better of him and he finds himself across the street, knocking on the large black door before he even realises it.

Mrs Hudson answers, looking faintly surprised as she meets his gaze.

“Oh, Doctor Watson,” she says, as though he’s the last man she expects to show up on her doorstep.

“Good evening, Mrs Hudson, I’m sorry for disturbing your peace, but might I enquire as to whether Mr Holmes is home or not?”

“I thought he was with you – he hasn’t been home since Tuesday last. I thought the two of you were on another case, am I mistaken?”

Watson’s stomach drops and he only just remembers to thank Mrs Hudson for her time before he darts from the doorstep and hails the nearest cab.

It seems to take a lifetime to get to Lestrade’s office, but once he finally reaches his destination, he pounds on the door and enters before he’s even given permission to.

“Where’s Holmes?” he asks Lestrade, barely keeping the volume of his voice in check.

“Ah, Watson,” Lestrade says and Watson knows the tone all too well.

“Oh, god,” Watson whispers, falling into the nearest chair and ignoring the protestations of his body. He’s out of breath from hastily making his way through the maze of the constabulary establishment and for a moment, he rests his forehead on the back of the hand that’s gripping his cane and leans forward, listening to his own breathing. When his heart rate lowers and he feels like he can talk without wheezing, he looks up as Lestrade, who’s sitting on the edge of his desk wearing the appearance of someone who has bad news to bear.

“What happened?” Watson asks, keeping his voice as composed as possible.

“From what we’ve gathered, it seems as though he went after Jennings, but ended up in a nasty scuffle with someone who wasn’t even related to the case – some bloke who was trying to rob a young lady who was on her way home from dinner with her parents. Holmes was stabbed in the stomach and wasn’t found until the morning after, which, by then, was too late.”

Lestrade carries on talking, probably explaining more details about the event, but Watson can’t focus, his mind reels, stuck on the words _too late_. He must mean that Holmes is in hospital, bedridden for the next few weeks, because this is Holmes they’re talking about; he always lands on his feet and it’s everyone else that ends up – he can’t even bring himself to think of the word.

A hand drops to his shoulder and he glances up at its owner – Lestrade – who gives him a look of commiseration.

“I’m sorry, Watson, but Holmes died three days ago.”

Everything falls away and Watson is left as just the shell of a man, hollow and alone. He feels nothing but emptiness, like his emotions have been blocked by some sort of invisible force. He stands quickly, earning himself a worried look from Lestrade, but he ignores it.

“I should return home, Mary will be awfully worried as to my whereabouts.”

Lestrade lifts his hand as if to grab onto Watson’s arm and keep him rooted in place, but it stops midway and hangs limply in the air.

“He’s been buried already, we couldn’t wait, as we had no reason to; you’ll find him in the Kensal Green cemetery, near the back where it’s quiet and shady – we thought he might have liked that.”

“I’ve been gone almost two hours, it’ll be dark soon,” is all Watson says, pretending that he doesn’t hear a word of what Lestrade tells him. He nods politely at Lestrade and leaves despite Lestrade’s attempts to call him back.

He feels numb and he hardly takes notice of where he’s going until he finds himself outside in the fresh evening air, breathing, but wishing he wasn’t. His friend and partner is gone and nothing seems to make much sense anymore.

*

221B is still dark when he walks past on his way home, but he doesn’t pause, just keeps limping onwards with his head down until he reaches his own home, which appears cosy and bright from the outside, but he doesn’t feel any warmer when he walks through the front door.

Mary asks after him when he walks in and shrugs his jacket off at the door to hang it on the coat stand, but he can’t bring himself to talk just yet. His throat feels like a clenched fist and he can only just breathe through the tightness. He moves into the lounge – Mary trailing silently behind – and pours himself a large glass of whiskey from the decanter on the mantle. He swallows it in one large gulp and a solitary hiccoughed sob escapes as he draws in a breath at the burn in his mouth.

He pinches the bridge of his nose with his free hand and shuts his eyes against the tears that threaten to fall. He only just manages to hold them back, but he can’t stop himself as he tosses his glass into the fireplace and listens to the loud smash as it fractures against the brickwork at the back. Watson opens his eyes again and watches as a faint cloud of ash drifts out in the wake of the shattering glass.

“Darling?” Mary asks, uncertainty clear in her voice.

“Holmes is gone,” he says after a steadying breath.

“On another case?”

“He’s _gone_.”

Mary raises a dainty hand to her mouth and lets out a small shocked sound before moving to sit on the edge of the settee.

“Oh, John,” she whispers and her heartfelt tone of her voice draws Watson to her and he finds himself dropping gently into the open space next to her and allowing her to wrap her arms around him.

“I knew one day this would happen, that he’d do something stupid, while trying to be heroic, and end up getting himself k-killed,” he stumbles over the brutal word, “but it doesn’t make it any easier, Mary.”

“Oh, John,” Mary says again, tucking Watson’s face into her neck and rubbing her fingers through the hair on the nape of his neck.

He still can’t find the tears to mourn the loss of his dear friend and he feels hopeless, like he’s grappling for a hold on a wall of ice; it’s cold and stings the flesh on his fingers, and he ends up sliding down and down into nothing. He can’t expect Mary to help pull him back up.

*

Watson visits the grave two weeks later; he dresses in mourning clothes and goes alone, when the sun has only been in the sky for a few hours.

It’s nothing fancy, just a small stone marker with Holmes’ name, date of birth, and date of death on it. There are no flowers, nothing that would suggest that someone, anyone, has visited to pay respects, just slightly sunken earth and poorly arranged turf. Watson stares down at the ground, hardly believing that his friend is six feet below his shoes eternally sleeping.

His emotions lodge in his throat and threaten to bubble out of his mouth, but he swallows them back down carefully.

With a shaking hand, Watson reaches into his coat pocket and withdraws one of Holmes’ clay smoking pipes – one he had found sitting innocently on the windowsill in his study a day after Holmes had visited him for the last time – and places it on the headstone. This is all he has to offer to a man to whom he owed his life several times over.

With only the dead around to hear him and witness his moment of weakness, he finally allows himself to cry. He cries for the past, the present, and, most of all, the future he’ll never have with the person he cared for most.

*

Watson surrounds himself with his practice, taking in more patients than he can reasonably manage, but it helps to occupy his mind. The busier he is, the less time he has to think about what could have been.

Every morning when he wakes, he suffers the same pain of loss as reality comes rushing back to him. Some days are better than others, but on the bad days, he locks himself away and refuses to see anyone. Those days, he sits in his study and reads through his old accounts of the cases he helped Holmes to solve. He knows he’s only making things worse for himself, but he can’t ever seem to stop.

He takes daily strolls after tea to clear his mind before the night rolls in with dreams of being with Holmes that only serve to wreck him when he awakens and finds it’s all been a lie made up by his cruel subconscious. Every other day, he choose a path that takes him down Baker Street, past 221B – where the lights are still not lit in the upper storeys – and tries to remember the good times he spent with his old friend. However, after three months, his memory starts to strain and he can only just remember the look Holmes used to give him when the last piece of puzzle for a case finally fell into place. It hurts more than anything else, and it seems as though every time he tries to cling tighter to his memories, they break from his grasp, like leaves dropping from the branches of a tree in autumn.

He often wonders if he should offer to help Mrs Hudson pack Holmes’ old belongings into boxes and move them to the attic, but he knows he wouldn’t last two minutes in the rooms they’d once shared. So he continues to be the passerby, the casual observer of the unchanged, and wonders how long he can survive living in his memories of the past.

*

Mary tells him he should choose different routes for his walks and Watson understands that she’s been following him. She says it with a look in her eyes that he finds hard to decipher; something like a blend of sadness and poorly suppressed disappointment.

“It’s been seven months,” she says to him, as if to remind him, if only for his own sake.

She presses a kiss against his temple and he hates himself for pushing his wife aside, when all she’s ever done is love him in return.

He slips his hand into hers and laces their fingers together.

“Just once more,” he murmurs into her lavender smelling hair, but can’t decide if he’s promising her or asking for permission.

She squeezes his hand gently and smiles sadly.

“Once more,” she repeats, but they both know it’s a lie.

*

Watson takes Mary to the new market they’ve set up several streets over. She’s been asking him to go with her for weeks, saying that she’s heard that they sell all sorts of worldly items and that she’d rather like to see for herself. He goes semi-begrudgingly, but once he’s there, he finds himself admiring the imported goods and listens as his wife excitedly points out various pieces of jewellery and crafts.

She’s admiring a handsome mirror that’s outlined with a gold painted frame, which is embossed with leaf prints on each of its corners when he catches movement out the corner of his eye that intrigues him. There’s a man of average height, dressed to the teeth in black, with a hat tipped over his eyes, as though he doesn’t want to be seen. For a second, Watson wonders if the man is a thief and is stealing things, but then he lifts his face high enough that Watson can catch a glimpse of his features and Watson abandons his post next to Mary and sets off at a rapid pace after the stranger.

Mary calls after him, at first gently, as though wondering what has caught his attention, then slightly panicked as Watson ignores her and continues on.

The man he’s following is quick, darting in and out of stands at a pace that is neither a walk nor a run, and Watson has difficulty trying to keep up. He gives up using his cane, picking up speed as he starts to gain on the stranger, and every step closer he takes, the more the man he’s chasing starts to look like Holmes. It’s impossible and completely irrational to believe that his friend has risen from the grave, but what if it was just a ruse and Holmes has been hiding on the outskirts of London since his disappearance? He never actually saw Holmes’ dead body, so who’s to say that the joke isn’t on him?

The man disappears for a few seconds and Watson has to pause to get his bearings, but then he spots him again as he begins to head down a side street and Watson breaks into a run. At the faster speed, he gains on the man and before he has time to get away, Watson grabs him by the elbow and stops suddenly, forcing the stranger to halt with him.

“Holmes!” Watson cries as he tugs the man around to face him.

He expects to find Holmes’ stubble-ridden face, marred with guilt and perhaps relief at being found out, but instead, he’s met with the confused face of a true stranger. The man is not Holmes, not in the slightest, and shame curls around him, like an anaconda constricting its prey and sucking the life straight from it. He mutters an apology, releasing the bemused man’s arm, and stepping backwards a few paces. The man straightens his jacket, turns on his heel, and sets off back down the street, leaving Watson out of breath and feeling rather like his life is laughing at his expense. His shoulders fall and it takes him a moment to stop himself from drowning in his disappointment.

He glances about him, realising that no one else around him has noticed anything, and walks dejectedly back in the direction of where he left Mary.

When she asks him where he went, he lies and tells her that he saw a boy stealing a necklace from the stall across the way, and after she inquires whether he caught the lad, he shakes his head negatively and points to a nearby hand mirror, which she turns her attention to without skipping a beat.

Even in the busy marketplace, he feels more alone than ever.

*

It’s the first year anniversary of Holmes’ death and Watson finds himself alone in a tavern, slowly drinking himself into a stupor. He orders double of every alcoholic beverage he gets: one for him and one for Holmes. He starts slurring his story to anyone willing to sit next to him at the counter for more than a minute. No one lasts longer than it takes for them to order their drinks and when he’s kicked out at closing time, Watson finds himself feeling worse than when he arrived. It’s just him and the owner left, but the other man bids him goodnight and locks up behind them. Watson watches him go, wondering how his life could be so affected, while others around him have no idea who Holmes even was.

He stumbles his way home, taking the longer route, despite his inebriated state, just to pass by 221B for the last time. He’s going to let go and help both himself and Holmes rest in peace.  
The house is dark and Watson is still alone.

He doesn’t remember the rest of the walk home, but he wakes the next day to find Mary placing a tray of tea and freshly made bread at his bedside. His head hurts and he only just makes it to the bathroom in time to heave the contents of his stomach into the toilet. When he crawls back into bed, his shoulders feel lighter than they have in months, but the hole in his stomach is a familiar feeling that he thinks he’ll never be able to rid himself of.

*

As life should have it, it’s then that the past decides that it’s had enough of hanging around in the space above Watson’s head and ends up crashing back on top of him.

*

Watson walks back from the apothecary, which, ironically, is on Baker Street, the one street he’s finally managed to break away from. He’s promised Mary that he’ll be home in time for the dinner of Cornish hen and home-grown potatoes – sent in the post by one of Mary’s aunts – that she’s been preparing all afternoon, and, really, he only popped out for a new bottle of antiseptic solution. However, as he passes by lit window after lit window, Watson finds himself glancing up at 221B out of habit.

There’s a lamp glowing softly in the second story window – Holmes’ old bedroom – and Watson takes a calming breath, because, at last, Mrs Hudson has let the room out to another person. The world is moving on, as it does, but now Watson is keeping up, one foot in front of the other – but then he stumbles, because a shadow passes in front of the glass and a man is gently illuminated from behind.

He drops the bag containing the bottle of liquid, deaf to the smash as it breaks upon contact with the cobbled street. Unless his eyes are deceiving him, Holmes is standing in front of the window, his trusty violin tucked under his chin, and he’s picking idly at the strings. For a moment he feels like fainting right there in the street, and even more so, as the man he thinks is Holmes, turns and spots him staring. The violin drops from Holmes’ shoulder and hangs loosely in Holmes’ hand; the man seems almost as surprised to see him in return.

In an instant, Watson is across the street, barging through the front door of 221B, heedless of the absurdity of it. He races up the stairs, two at a time, until he finds himself outside of Holmes’ old room. He flings the door open and steps through before the wood has time to bounce of the wall and slam shut behind him.

The light is dim, but even so, Watson can see that it’s really Holmes – though he looks a little worse for wear – standing in the centre of the room staring back at him.

“I couldn’t tell you,” Holmes confesses, and Watson thinks it’s the most ridiculous thing to say after being gone for over a year; a _hello_ would have sufficed.

Watson doesn’t know what to do with himself, too caught up in the realisation that his suffering has been for nothing, that Holmes has been alive the whole time. With his emotions running high, he ends up striding across the room to land a heavy blow against Holmes’ jaw with his clenched fist. Holmes doesn’t stop him, doesn’t try to block the punch, though Watson’s sure he was expecting it, but Watson can’t bring himself to hit him again. Watson stumbles backwards, ashamed at having no control over himself, and falls into a nearby chair. He drops his face into his hands and stays silent for a moment.

“You’ve been dead for more than a year,” he whispers, almost to himself, then looks up as anger courses through his veins. “You let me believe you were dead!”

“I couldn’t tell you,” Holmes repeats. “Jennings blackmailed me. He told me he’d kill you and Mary if I didn’t vanish and let him do as he pleased. I faked my death, but only to benefit you, Watson! I’ve spent this year gathering enough evidence to have Jennings arrested and put in prison for life.”

Watson rubs his face, feeling the beginnings of a very large headache coming on.

“I couldn’t tell you because I knew that if you found out, you would go after Jennings and get yourself killed.”

“Who knew?” Watson asks, looking at Holmes, as though to make sure he’s still there.  
Holmes shrugs nonchalantly and says, “A few people.”

Fury flares up again in Watson and he finds himself standing, despite the fact that all he really feels like doing is sitting down; his knees are weak, his leg is killing him, and he’s utterly exhausted.

“Who?” he yells, his voice cracking slightly on the word.

“Lestrade, Walker, Mrs. Hudson – though I don’t know how she managed to keep her lips sealed for so long – a few people we paid to be witnesses, despite the fact that you never asked to meet any of them. We paid off the gravedigger at the Kensal Green cemetery and had a headstone fitted.” He pauses and Watson knows the worst is yet to come. “Mary,” he says finally and Watson feels like he’s been sucker punched in the stomach.

He falls back into his seat and says feebly, “Half of London knew, except me; am I really that untrustworthy?”

He looks at Holmes sadly, but Holmes doesn’t meet his eyes, just chews on the side of his thumb, until he seems to gather his wits and finally glances at Watson.

“I trust you with my life, Watson –”

Watson interrupts with an abrupt snort of disbelief.

“The irony is overwhelming, Holmes.”

Holmes bows his head and a silence falls between them. When Watson can stand it no longer, he rises and steps towards Holmes. With a gentle touch, he slips two fingers under Holmes’ chin and lifts his face back up. He can’t quite believe that Holmes is back with the living, standing right in front of him and meeting his gaze with remorseful eyes. Holmes’ skin is cool beneath his warm fingers, but it’s soft and real and Watson finds himself needing to touch more, just to prove to himself that Holmes is really there.

He slides a palm up the side of Holmes’ face, while the fingers on his other hand dance over the stubble on Holmes’ chin. He rubs a thumb against Holmes’ jaw then moves his fingers up to Holmes’ creased brow.

Holmes doesn’t stop him, just remains still, as though he silently understands what Watson needs from him.

He touches Holmes’ hairline and the space between his eyebrows and down the gentle curve of his nose. His other hand slides into his hair, slipping through the soft strands and gently combing it with his fingers. Holmes’ eyes fall shut briefly as Watson runs his thumb over Holmes’ bottom lip and Watson repeats the motion, just to see if it’ll draw the same reaction again; it does.

One of Holmes’ own hands comes up to cup Watson’s jaw and Watson finds himself gently leaning into the touch.

“I have missed you, too, Watson; death is not a one-sided deal.”

Holmes’ honesty crashes over Watson like a tidal wave, and he’s left feeling as though he’s churning in water that’s completely surrounding and disorientating him; he doesn’t know which way’s up and which way’s down, but it’s somehow okay, because he has Holmes to cling onto.

Watson threads his fingers further into Holmes’ hair, until they wrap around the back of his head and without thinking, Watson pulls him forward and kisses him softly. The mouth beneath his is soft and warm, the mouth of someone very much alive. He draws back, his heart in his throat, and stares at Holmes.

“I’m sorry, Watson,” Holmes says and for a second, Watson thinks he’s rejecting his advances, but then he repeats himself and Watson realises it’s an apology for what he’s put Watson through, what he’s put himself through, because Holmes pulls their lips back together and presses up against Watson’s body fully.

It’s a struggle for touch and taste as Watson lets everything go and takes everything he can from Holmes and Holmes does the same to him. Their teeth clash, noses bump, and Watson ends up with the coppery taste of blood in his mouth as Holmes catches his lip and splits it accidentally. Watson tugs at Holmes’ hair, trying to get him impossibly closer and Holmes grabs his waist with vice-like fingers.

Watson kicks his shoes off and tugs Holmes’ shirt out of his trousers, pushing it up under his armpits without even trying to undo the buttons. Holmes raises his arms and lets Watson remove it, their mouths breaking for a moment, before clashing back together. Holmes quickly divests Watson of his jacket and waistcoat, while Watson undoes Holmes’ belt. The leather cracks loudly in the silence as Watson whips it from Holmes’ belt loops and tosses it to the floor. Holmes’ fingers work on the fastening on Watson’s shirt, which flutters to the floor moments later.

They stumble in the direction of Holmes’ bed, shucking their trousers and underwear as they go, until Holmes falls backwards onto the mattress and Watson follows after, sprawling on top of his chest gracelessly. It’s not about finesse, just about feeling as much of each other as possible, and it’s messy and quick, and leaves Watson rather breathless.

Watson grinds his hips down, pushing his cock into Holmes’ own, and Holmes pushes his head back into the duvet and bucks underneath him. It feels like every pleasure Watson has ever known, like he’s finally learned how to climb the precipice he’s been clinging onto for the past year or so and he’s reaching the top, where safety awaits with open arms.

Holmes writhes and thrusts against him; Watson doesn’t quite have his bearings, but his compass only points towards Holmes, so he pushes forwards blindly and lets himself fall against the solid chest under his. He finds the throbbing of Holmes’ pulse under the skin of his throat with his mouth and sears the beat of it into Holmes’ flesh with his tongue. He nips and sucks and laves against the curve of Holmes’ shoulder, needing something to do with his mouth as he slips against Holmes’ body and finally comes with a muffled moan.

Holmes pushes himself into the softness of Watson’s inner thigh, rolling and rocking against Watson’s lax body, until he tumbles after Watson without a word, just a breath.

Watson’s body rises and falls with Holmes’ heaving chest and he gently slips into the space at Holmes’ side, feeling boneless and sated.

After a long moment, they move to lie lengthways on the bed, before sliding beneath the covers to keep their bodies heated.

Holmes winds himself around Watson’s side, pushing his face into his shoulder and slipping his leg between Watson’s own two and Watson can’t complain because he’s never felt so encompassed by warmth. He rubs a hand up and down Holmes’ back soothingly and falls asleep listening to Holmes whisper apologies and promises into his skin.

Holmes tells him softly that he’ll never die again and Watson’s too tired to correct him.

*

There’s a warm body pressing against his back when Watson wakes up. He doesn’t know what the time is, but the sun is shining through the window at the end of the room and it’s clear that in their exhaustion, in their gladness to finally be reunited, they’ve slept for rather a long time. He stretches and curls against Holmes, as warm breath ghosts over his shoulder before the press of lips follows. Watson realises at that moment that Holmes must have woken much earlier and has been waiting for Watson to wake since then.

He rolls over until they’re chest to chest, and he buries his nose into Holmes’ skin breathing in the scent that fuels his addiction. For the first time in over a year, Watson isn’t hit with the thought of Holmes being dead, instead he’s greeted with a deep, open-mouthed kiss from the man himself when he raises his head to look at him sleepily. He groans into it and winds his arms around Holmes’ back, tangling them together. Holmes nibbles at his lower lip and runs his hand down the back of Watson’s thigh. Watson can’t help but rock forwards into Holmes’ solid body and Holmes responds by tugging Watson’s leg until it slips around his waist. Watson starts to grow hard at the contact and for a moment he thinks, _surely, it’s too early for this_ , but when Holmes ruts against him and his mirroring erection digs into Watson’s hip, the thought vanishes completely from his mind.

Watson can feel that there’s no rush this time, the initial need gone, leaving slowly burning desire in its wake, and he’s okay with that.

He gently rolls onto his back, dragging Holmes with him, until Holmes lies on top of him, pinning him to the mattress and using the position to his advantage by slipping his tongue easily into Watson’s slackened mouth. Holmes presses down on him and a sleep-roughened groan rushes out of Watson, straight into the trap of Holmes’ parted lips. Their hips rock steadily together, their cocks nudging against one another and drawing further moans from Watson and new ones from Holmes.

Holmes’ mouth is hot and gentle against his own and he begins to lose himself in the sensation of the kiss. Holmes bites at his bottom lip, soothes the throbbing skin with a swipe of his tongue, then pulls away as he sits up, straddling Watson’s waist and letting the sheets slide down his back into a puddle at Watson’s knees. The light filtering into the room glows against Holmes’ pale skin and Watson can’t stop himself from tracing his fingertips over his shoulders, his sides, his hips. Holmes watches his hands move and waits until Watson lets his fingers fall to Holmes’ thighs, then begins his own exploration of skin.

Holmes starts at his brow, fingertips sliding down his cheek, down his neck, to his shoulder, where he stops and looks back up at Watson’s face. Watson doesn’t stop him as he runs a finger over the scar he finds there; it doesn’t hurt anymore, but the memory of being shot by Jennings is still all too real in his mind. He watches Holmes curiously, as Holmes dips his head and swipes his tongue against the taut patch of skin. He can’t really feel it – the scar tissue isn’t as sensitive as the rest of his skin – but the act of Holmes doing it is enough to make him groan quietly. Holmes presses a gentle kiss to it, then sits back and slides his fingers down the front of Watson’s chest.

He passes his fingertip between Watson’s nipples, over his navel, then into the dark curls at the base of his cock. Watson feels himself twitch in response and Holmes wraps a firm hand around him, which he can’t help but look at as Holmes begins to stroke him. His grip is steady and just tight enough to give him slight satisfaction, but then he swipes his thumb over the head of his cock and Watson has to look away, else he’ll finish too quickly. He wants to thrust his hips up into Holmes’ touch, but the heavy weight on his waist pins him in place.

He digs his fingers into Holmes’ thighs instead and enjoys the hissing breath Holmes lets out at his nails bite into the soft skin. Holmes gets the hint and after a few more strokes, lets Watson go and moves off of him to sit on the edge of the bed and rustle through his nightstand – probably for any sort of lubricant, Watson thinks. When he apparently finds what he’s looking for, Holmes moves to kneel between Watson’s legs, using his long fingers to spread them around his body.

Watson feels vulnerable with his legs parted, but Holmes is gentle with him as he slicks up his fingers and starts to prepare him.

At first, the feeling is unfamiliar and Watson feels like pulling away from the touch, but then Holmes’ finger presses onto his prostate and he finds himself rocking his body down further onto the digit. Holmes slips another finger into him and keeps rubbing them against the sensitive spot inside him. His cock leaks heavily over itself and his stomach and he starts to think he can’t stand any more of Holmes’ torture. Holmes doesn’t rush, just keeps on opening Watson up slowly until he finally seems satisfied with his handiwork and withdraws his fingers.

Watson takes the lubrication from Holmes’ other hand and after pouring some onto his palm, he slips his hand down to slick Holmes up himself. Holmes thrusts into his loose grip, helping to coat himself in the substance, then takes hold of Watson’s wrist and pulls his hand away. Without thinking, Watson wraps his legs further around Holmes’ back and tightens them to tug Holmes closer, until the heated head of a cock nudges at his entrance.

With a gentle push, Holmes slips inside and Watson lets out a breath at the sensation. He can feel himself shift and stretch around Holmes’ cock and the feeling of fullness as Holmes presses in as far as he can go envelops Watson’s senses. He locks his ankles together against the small of Holmes’ back and lets Holmes rock into him, gaining momentum with every movement. Holmes’ thrusts are deep and even and Watson admires his composure, however, what he needs is something raw and real. He shifts his hips to meet Holmes’ and watches the way Holmes’ self-control crumbles around them.

Holmes picks up the pace, driving into Watson with the force Watson needs, bending to capture Watson’s lips as he does so. The feeling of Holmes inside him and all around him is what sends Watson over the edge and his toes curl with the force of his orgasm as it rocks through him.

Holmes twists his hips, breathes Watson’s name into the space between them, then comes, spreading warmth inside of Watson’s body.

The whole of Watson’s body thrums and continues to do so, even after Holmes pulls out and gently encourages Watson to untangle his legs from around his body, so he can fall onto the bed beside him.

Watson slowly catches his breath, before rolling over to face Holmes. He kisses him on the corner of his mouth then draws back again. He stares at the lines on Holmes’ face, the ones he forgot over time, but is now able to memorise again. He lets his hand drift to Holmes’ cheek and Holmes sends him a look of curiosity, but doesn’t say anything.

“I’m glad you’re back amongst the living,” Watson whispers, rubbing his thumb against Holmes’ cheekbone.

Holmes moves one of his own hands to rest on top of Watson’s and smiles gently.

“As am I,” is all he says, but that’s all Watson needs to hear.

*

Watson isn’t usually the snooping type, but when Holmes leaves him alone in his bedroom while he bathes in the next room, Watson finds his attention being stolen away by a letter that’s sitting innocently face-down on Holmes’ desk. It’s in plain view, so Watson jumps to the conclusions that it can’t be anything personal.

He picks it up and turns it over, almost dropping it in surprise when he realises the curving script on the front is recognisably Mary’s. His stomach drops at the thought of his wife; he never even stopped to think about the consequences of his actions the night prior, too consumed with Holmes’ return, but the reality is there now, looming in the background. He moves to sit on the settee, staring at the envelope in his hand, wondering what on earth he’s going to tell Mary. He never even showed up to her dinner and she must be worried sick about him.

He doesn’t know why Mary would send a note to Holmes, but he intends on finding out. He slides the paper from the already-opened envelope and carefully unfolds it. He doesn’t need to bring it close to his face to be able to smell the faint musk of Mary’s perfume – the one he bought her from a French market on their honeymoon. The first thing that surprises him is the date that’s neatly written underneath Mary’s signed name at the letter’s end, as it’s from two months ago.

He leans forwards slightly and begins to read:

>   
>  _Mr .S. Holmes,_
> 
> _I have given this letter to Inspector Lestrade to pass on to you and I hope it finds you well. You may be surprised to receive this from me, as it seems we have never quite seen each other eye to eye, but I assure you, we have one thing in common, and that is my dear husband, John Watson. From the moment he was notified of your “death”, he has never quite recovered, and he spends his days just trying to get by. He has lost himself and I am not sure that even I can help find him. My greatest fear is that it will be too late when you return from hiding and tell John the truth._
> 
> _However, I know that once you do come back, I will still be unable to find the same John I married, as that version of the man will be forever gone. I believe there has always been a part of me that has realised that John will never be completely mine, though it does not make this easier for me. You share a bond with him that no one else will ever be able to come between and your reappearance will only strengthen this. John now needs you as much as you need him and I will leave it up to him to make the decision; whether to remain with me, or return to you._
> 
> _I will know the day this happens, but I will not blame anyone for John’s choice. I will always love him, as much as you do, and I only want for his happiness._
> 
> _Truly yours &c,_
> 
> _Mrs .J. Watson._

Watson has no words left and it’s at that moment, that Holmes re-enters the room, fully dressed, holding a plate of sandwiches. He stops when Watson meets his gaze and Watson feels guilty and shocked and every other kind of emotion, all at once. Holmes shuts the door behind him quietly, sets the plate on his desk as he walks towards Watson, then sits carefully next to him on the settee.

“You left this for me to read, didn’t you?” Watson asks, because it might have been a long time since he’s been able to spend time with Holmes, but he still knows the sort of person Holmes is.

Holmes confirms his suspicions with a nod and the letter falls from Watson’s grip as he moves his hands to cover his face.

“I’ll never be able to face her after this. How am I meant to make that decision?” he says lifting his head back up.

“She’s giving you an option, Watson, and it says right there on that piece of paper that she’ll love you no matter what you choose.”

“I know she’ll want me to come back to her, really, but what about you? I left once and look what happened.”

Holmes smirks.

“Things like that will happen whether you leave or stay, Watson, you know that.”

“But you don’t want me to go back to Mary, do you?”

Holmes looks at him with what Watson believes is a truly sincere face and sighs gently.

“It doesn’t matter what I want; it doesn’t matter what Mary wants; what do _you_ want, Watson? For once in your life, be a little bit selfish and make a decision based on what _you_ want, not what the people around you want.”

“I don’t know, Holmes,” he says, but if he’s perfectly honest, he does know, has made his choice a long time ago.

“Yes you do,” Holmes presses carefully.

Watson glances away, then as a silent admission, slips his hand into Holmes’ own and squeezes lightly.

“Excellent,” Holmes says, winding an arm around Watson’s neck, “I had hoped you’d pick me.”

Watson tries to protest at Holmes’ arrogance, but his words are muffled by the mouth that presses over his, and he quickly realises that it doesn’t matter – has never truly mattered – because he wouldn’t have Holmes any other way.


End file.
